


Recovering

by Venturous



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Pre-Slash, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-03
Updated: 2011-09-03
Packaged: 2017-10-26 21:42:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venturous/pseuds/Venturous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>for Holmesverse Challenge Time Jump</p>
    </blockquote>





	Recovering

**Author's Note:**

> for Holmesverse Challenge Time Jump

**One week**

after the explosion at the pool, John Watson opened his eyes. Although he couldn’t focus properly, he quickly determined he was in a hospital bed, and that his head hurt. He closed his eyes to minimize the searing lights and called on his other senses to give him information. John was relieved to find he had all of his limbs in working order, with the exception of his right arm. It must be in a cast, since nothing would bend from the wrist up to his shoulder. His pulse rate was reasonable, with the exception of the pounding in his head. 

“You’re awake.” He heard a cultured voice speak to him quietly. He hadn’t seen anyone in his room, nor heard someone come in, but clearly he could hear. 

John tried to open his eyes. He wasn’t sure if it was Sherlock or his brother, and he was suddenly seized with a cold fear that Sherlock was gone. 

  
  
**One month**   
  
after Moriarty got away, John was sitting in Mycroft’s office, demanding answers. The elder Holmes was charmingly feeding him non-information. 

“I need some INFORMATION, Mycroft. You are dancing around and feeding me crap. I need to know what happened, and where I can find that bastard. I will hunt him down, I swear it.” He could not stand the patronizing sympathy face that Mycroft was giving him.

John had recovered, mostly. His headaches were manageable, and his vision was finally normal. His arm needed strengthening. But his grief had only just begun. 

  
  
**One year**   
  
after he stepped out of a changing room wrapped in explosives, he heard footsteps on the stairs at 221b and shook his head, for they sounded like Sherlock. He castigated himself for still having his hope still rise. “You are only imagining that it’s him, Watson. Stop it.”

When the door flew open and the grey eyes met his, he thought: “Now I’m hallucinating.”

Sherlock’s face was indescribable. He looked … worn. Gone from thin to gaunt, dark shadows under his eyes and hair long and straggling.

He was the most beautiful thing that John Watson had ever seen.


End file.
